


The Bed We Lie In

by dollarformyname



Category: Dark Angel
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kittens, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:53:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollarformyname/pseuds/dollarformyname
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the bed's fault. Or the combination of the amazingly comfortable bed and the conveniently angled television. Each of these things on their own were enough of a flame to Alec's moth, but together they spelled doom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TaleWeaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaleWeaver/gifts).



> Written for the [da-reversebang](http://da-reversebang.livejournal.com/) based on [nessataleweaver](http://nessataleweaver.livejournal.com/)'s prompt of fanmixy goodness. You can leave the artist a comment and find the download link [here on LJ](http://nessataleweaver.livejournal.com/28981.html) or [here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/857434).
> 
> The whole tone of this thing kind of wandered around on me. I apologize if it's weird. Also, due to RL interference, I'm still writing and editing right now, just trying to get this thing up as I go, so the next couple parts should be up soon-ish.

It started with a bed. 

Two days after the government had sent in supplies and used-but-still-usable donations like a bribe, hoping it might make the transgenics more agreeable to their ridiculously unfair terms, Max had a real bed, with real bedding, and she didn't want to get out of it, ever. There was no bed frame, just a couple of used twin-size mattresses stacked on top of each other, but they were clean and came with honest-to-god sheets, a comforter, and a whole bunch of fluffy, fluffy pillows. It didn't even matter that she hardly ever slept. Her apartment was a tiny office with no windows or furniture to speak of, just stacks and piles of stuff all over the floor, and the bed was her new favorite place. 

And, given there was so little entertainment in Terminal City, the television was her not-as-new favorite stress reliever, even if it showed mostly pre-Pulse reruns. 

It was the bed's fault. Or the combination of the amazingly comfortable bed and the conveniently angled television. Each of these things on their own were enough of a flame to Alec's moth, but together they spelled doom. 

“Hey, so I think we've got enough—what're you watching?” Alec said, barging into her apartment without knocking, a stack of papers in hand and his attention immediately captured by the flicker-play of light in the darkened room. 

Max sighed and hugged her pillow tighter. “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” she said, and threw a dirty sock at his leg because it was blocking her view. “Now go away. I'm off the clock.”

Alec didn't go away. He waved his papers at her distractedly. “Enough food to last us a couple months,” he finished what he'd come in to say, and then he plopped down right on top of Max's legs. “That move doesn't make any tactical sense. Are those Halloween masks?”

“Alec, what the hell,” Max warned, kicking at him because _seriously_. “This is quiet time. Get your attention-deficit ass out of my apartment.”

“I can be quiet,” Alec promised, and then a vampire exploded into dust on the screen and he pushed her over so he could squeeze onto the mattress more comfortably, making a surprised, appreciative noise at its bounciness before promptly hogging all of the covers, like he didn't even notice she was there anymore.

Max scowled, but Alec's warmth wasn't totally unwelcome—just because she could withstand subzero temperatures didn't mean she liked them, and it'd been really cold lately—and she was mostly too relaxed to argue much and didn't want to miss anymore compelling dialogue, so she gave up. 

“You try copping a feel and you'll lose an appendage,” she said, and then she kicked him again, for good measure. 

-:-

“You tricked us,” Alec said the next night. 

Max had just come in from the rain, shivery and soaked to the bone and hoarse from yelling at Mole for the umpteenth time about how to handle kids shooting bottle rockets over the fences (which was to _not_ open fire, even if the bullets went harmlessly into the sky), and Alec, the jackass, was already snuggled down in her bed getting popcorn all over her sheets. 

She sighed and moved over to a dark corner to strip out of her wet clothes; it wasn't like anything short of an alien invasion could break Alec's zombie-stare when the TV was on, anyway. “What the hell're you talking about? Don't you have your own closet to hang out in?”

“Your bed,” Alec said. “It's softer, and it smells better. You made us think you were being all generous giving up the bigger beds, but this one is more awesome than mine. It was a trick.”

“Yeah, sure.” Max threw on an oversized t-shirt, rolled him unceremoniously onto the floor and slipped under the covers. She grunted and swiped at the popcorn pieces underneath her, flicking some of the crumbs into his hair. “Bed supremacy. My evil plan all along.”

“Your TV is bigger too.” Alec shifted around, looking petulant and trying to get comfortable on the stiff carpet. 

Eyelids weighing about million pounds, Max mumbled into her pillows, “I stole that fair and square. Not my fault you're a shitty thief.”

Alec went quiet and thoughtful, thankfully seeming to grasp this as one of the rare times her body was demanding actual rest. “Ninja Turtles is on,” he said, like he wanted her to know kicking him out right now would be _extra_ cruel and unusual just in case she was getting any ideas, but he kept the volume low. 

-:-

It went on like that for a couple of weeks. Not every night, because sometimes time or electrical outages or generally foul moods didn't permit, but most of them. 

In between the business of leading a revolution and keeping the peace between a population of mostly imprisoned superhumans (what Seattle's citizens didn't know about TC's poorly guarded loopholes wouldn't hurt them), Alec would duck into Max's office and say something like, “Zombies at 7,” and then they'd race to see who could finish up their phone calls, inventory, riot-control, et-freaking-cetera, and get to the bed first, thus claiming the most premium TV-watching spot and getting the plumpest pillow. Or she would get enough free time to have an actual lunch hour and interrupt Alec's weapons maintenance with a, “Days of Our Lives,” and he'd act like he didn't know what language she was speaking in front of the other guys, but then he'd be up there before she was, waiting for Max to toss him some chips. Or, more often, Alec would barge in at 1AM with blueprints and maps, interrupting the one time Max was actually trying to chill out and read a book, because this one movie had given him an idea, and then they'd sit there plotting heists—some that they actually went through with, some totally outrageous and just for the heck of it—with ancient Nick-at-Nite reruns playing in the background. 

They never had a conversation about it, never had to talk about how they weren't inviting anyone else over for TV time or had to justify it by explaining that the bed was only so big, because it wasn't even a thing. It was just something to do, a way to decompress after a hard and sometimes really weird day. Just another little quirk in Max's crazy life that she adjusted to without much effort, and maybe if she were held at gunpoint or something she would admit aloud that it was kinda nice. 

Until it wasn't, because Alec had to go and lose his mind for no apparent reason. 

“There's a killer sharks marathon on the SyFy channel all day,” Alec told her, after they'd finished prepping for the press conference they were supposed to be holding in a few days. The whole thing was crazy-making, their first official message to the world, where they could be quoted and everything, and everyone was jangling with nerves and stress just waiting for it to arrive so they could have it done and over with. “Jaws, Deep Blue Sea, one with alien sharks, I think. It's mostly the same five movies over and over, so we can probably catch all of them if we finish by 10.”

“Can't tonight,” Max sighed, and she was deeply, deeply sad about it because some of those shark movies were the lamest kind of awesome. She doubted she'd be able to enjoy it anyway, though. Keeping herself busy with covert nighttime activities felt like it'd be the best way to pass the time and not overthink. “I promised Logan I'd help him out on a job. Breaking in, collecting evidence, and, you know, if I happen to run across anything valuable, it's considered a bonus, so...“ Max frowned at the way Alec's face shut down, the eager light in his eyes abruptly smothered out. “What? It's not like you've ever had a problem making yourself at home when I'm not there,” she said. “Just don't go sniffing through my underwear or anything.”

Alec smirked, but it was a plastered-on thing, none of his usual warmth in it. “Yeah, no, it's fine. Just thought you were done with Eyes Only missions for a while.”

“I wouldn't risk it if it wasn't important,” Max said, slow, because she couldn't get a read on him and that hadn't happened to her in a long, long time. She felt lost at sea, suddenly. “If he gets what he needs on this guy, who happens to be putting a lot of influence and money up against our cause, it could go a long way toward helping us out of this mess. You can—” She licked her lips and huffed, because he was still making that face at her. “Do you want to come or something?”

“Nah.” Alec let out a kind of huffing, bitter laugh. “No, I really don't. One of us should hang back and hold down the fort, right?”

“Gem and Joshua can—“

“I'm good here, Max,” Alec said, voice carefully neutral but his tone final, and then he left her standing there, feeling like she'd missed something important by about a thousand miles. 

-:-

When Max met with Logan at Joshua's old digs, she wasn't as focused as she would've liked. She could always rely on feeling awkward and out of step around him, but it was habitual by now, a default state of being rather than because of any lingering not-like-that vibes between them. They tended to stick to business as much as possible, because small talk tripped them into minefields that maybe they both thought should feel worse than they did. They'd accepted it being over a while ago, but it turned out that when they weren't moping and pining they didn't actually know what they were to each other, besides business associates who happened to know what the other tasted like. So, yeah. Awkward. But not painful. Not really. 

But Max couldn't stop thinking about the upcoming speech she was supposed to give in front of a million-and-one haters, couldn't shut out the vague dread she always felt when she left TC for too long, like maybe she'd left a stove on somewhere and should turn back around to double and triple-check. She tried to reassure herself—they'd planned as best they could and would plan some more tomorrow, and Alec could be trusted to keep the house from burning down around him, even when he was being weird. She tried to let it go. 

“Hey,” Logan said, breaking into her thoughts. “You drink too much coffee today or something?”

Max stopped pacing and looked over at all the plans Logan had spread out across the coffee table. She already had them memorized but the guy didn't get where he was by being sloppy. Outside, the night was a moonless black and rain battered at the windows like the tap-tap-tapping of a hundred angry ravens. It was cold, she was wet and she was going to have to go back out there and get wet again, and while it was nice to get out and breathe free air every now and then, she already missed her bed. 

It wasn't until she blurted, “I'm missing killer sharks for this,” that she stumbled over the last tangle of obstacles her own brain like to pit against her and got to the heart of it. 

Alec being weird was never a good sign. He could start abusing pianos any second now, and, as a friend and a leader, she should be getting to the bottom of it before it spiraled out of control. 

Logan frowned, eyebrows crinkled together, and of course he didn't get it. “I'm sorry?” he tried.

“It's fine,” Max said. “I'm just gonna. I'm gonna go do this thing.” She headed for the front door.

“Max, hey,” Logan said, and she stopped to shoot him a strained smile over her shoulder. 

“I'll be back before you know it,” she assured, and left.

And she was. 

Despite all her jittering and growing irritation with the puzzle Alec was making of himself, contrary bastard that he was, the job went off without a hitch. She got to use her new grappling hook, got what she came for without tripping any alarms or having to knock anyone out—though maybe that was more bad luck than good, because she really felt like punching someone—and managed to snag a priceless statue and a handful of jewelry in the process. 

She dropped the incriminating thumb drives off with Logan and hurried back to TC, thinking she might just make it time to catch the tail end of an alien shark attack. 

When she got there, though, her apartment was dark and cold. The blankets on the bed were still in the same messy lump she'd left them in that morning. 

Max changed into something dry and more comfortable, debated with herself for about five minutes, and then went to knock on Alec and Joshua's door downstairs. 

No one answered. The only sounds behind the door were the mewing of the stray kittens that used to hang around one of the storm drains on Oak Street, until Alec had adopted them, which he persistently denied and blamed on Joshua, pretending not to know what anyone was talking about when they called him on wasting valuable time and resources to rob pet stores on a regular basis. 

They sounded hungry. Someone should probably feed them, right?

Right. 

Max let herself in. 

The place was as dark as hers, though a little bit bigger. Joshua had a single mattress that took up most of the floor, Alec's bed crammed against the opposite wall, and there was a small strip of space between them where dirty laundry and paperback books had collected. The kittens had claimed it as a nest when the living furnaces who fed them were out. The front of the room was lined with plastic shelves, the old flatscreen TV Alec had salvaged from a dumpster sitting on top, and there was a small closet, where, judging from the overwhelming smell of deodorizer used in excess, the litter boxes were kept. 

As soon as Max walked in, Monty, an ever-quivering little thing whose fur was thin and patchy, started slinking around her legs begging with huge, liquid eyes to be cuddled, and Slash climbed her like a tree, his six-clawed front feet planted firmly on her head so he could chew on her hair. The other cat, Killer Bones, had no visible deformities other than being kind of scrawny. He tried to dart past her and out the open door, no doubt eager to run out and bring his hunting-incompetent owners back a dead rat or something— _“I'm pretty sure he's overcompensating,”_ was Alec's favorite excuse for the murderous runt—but Max thwarted his escape with a quick swipe of her foot, scooting him back in and closing the door. 

“Where's your keeper, huh?” Max asked, going to check the bowls in the corner. They were still plenty full. 

Monty purred and butted his head against her ankle more persistently. Killer Bones went to go sulk in a corner. Slash ate some more of her hair. 

It wasn't really that late. Alec and Josh probably got caught up playing poker with Mole and Luke or something. Max could go down there if she wanted, join in, but she didn't relish the idea of hashing out whatever Alec's problem was in front of the others. Best to just wait him out. 

Max bent down to pick up Monty. He curled up in the crook of her elbow happily and went right to sleep. 

Obviously they were lonely and needed company, she told herself. Which was why it was perfectly acceptable for her to gather them up, leave Alec and Joshua a note, and take them back to her place. 

It wasn't like they were her furry little hostages or anything. 

-:-

Killer Bones peed on her bed and then proceeded to use the mattresses as a scratching post, so Max was already understandably grumpy when, a few hours later, it was Joshua and not Alec who came by to take the kittens back, and she was forced to admit she wasn't properly equipped to keep them for very long. 

She went down to the shower rooms to wash her sheets, cursing and so goddam sick of cold rain and cold water, and screw Alec anyway. Max was in charge, she was the boss, this wasn't supposed to happen, and if she thought it would actually work instead of make things worse, she would go up there and order him to cooperate, or at least beat it out of him. 

But she didn't, and for the next two days, he avoided her so blatantly it was infuriating. And maybe a little depressing. He wasn't even trying to hide it, sending anyone and everyone else to relay any information she might need, and, when she did manage to actually run into him, he kept his face blank and his eyes averted and spoke in monosyllables. If he didn't just get up and run out of the room, that was, leaving Dalton to stand there looking at her awkwardly. 

“What'd you do?” Dalton asked, a little wide-eyed and more stunned than accusatory.

“Good question,” Max muttered, wrung-out and just so fucking tired of it by then. “Let me know if you figure it out first, huh?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and Max went back to her office to call Clemente and make sure he had his ducks in a row for the press conference tomorrow.

When she was done with that, she sat back and wracked her brain some more, staring out the window at the gunmetal haze of the afternoon sky, watching the gulls dive and wheel around. 

It'd struck her, more than once, that it really should not be bothering her this much. Alec had his moods just like anyone, but no one enjoyed feeling like they'd done something so wrong that they weren't even allowed to know what it was. That morning she'd been fed up enough to tell herself that if he wanted to play it like this, then fine. Max would just let him sulk it out of his system. 

Except, apparently, that was taking too long. She couldn't even hold onto her resolve for a whole half a day. 

She'd gone over that mysteriously catastrophic conversation in her head so many times already, and the only solid thought she could come up with what that she was being selfish, somehow. Maybe Alec wanted to go out every once in a while, too, not just for the cat burglarizing antics that Max reveled in, but to remember he'd been allowed to have a real life once, if only for a little while. Maybe he missed it. 

Or maybe Max was projecting. 

It wasn't like she had much to go on, though, so she conspired with Joshua to catch Alec that night in his own apartment. 

As soon as Joshua slipped out and revealed Max standing there in the doorway, blocking the exit, Alec's shoulders curled forward and his eyes couldn't decide between a tight and narrow cornered-animal response, or wide and scared. He was tacky with sweat, hair sticking up every which way, and sawdust clung to his clothes from playing construction worker most of the day, trying to help convert some of TC's less decrepit buildings into more relevant spaces.

Max plucked some clothes that didn't totally stink off the floor and threw them at him. “Go shower. We're going out.”

He straightened, deciding on something like wary acceptance when she didn't immediately start interrogating him. “A job?”

“Not work,” Max said. “Play.”

Alec's eyebrows went up in surprise. 

“Just get dressed,” she said, and forced herself to move away from the door and let him pass, instead of escorting him all the way to the showers like a prison guard the way she really wanted to.

Alec watched her for a long second, visibly debating with himself about whether or not he should cooperate. But he wasn't any better than her when it came to his curiosity and it was obvious she wasn't going to give him any details unless he went along, so he nodded.

“Plan worked?” Joshua asked, poking his head around the corner of the hallway after Alec had gone. 

“So far, so good,” Max said, angling him a grateful smile. It faltered. “I think.”

Killer Bones took advantage of their distraction to flash out into the hall and down the stairs. They spent the next twenty minutes chasing him all over the building, which was annoying, but also good, in that Max didn't have to stand around wondering if Alec was going to change his mind and leave her hanging. 

-:-

“That little shit is a menace,” Max said, swiping at the blood still welling up in little beads all up and down her arms. She was mostly talking to herself, because Alec had been stubbornly not participating in any attempts at conversation since they'd dropped down into the sewers, so she was surprised when he actually answered. 

“Yeah, but he's good for pest control,” he muttered, hands shoved deep into his pockets and his stride tight and jerky. “Ever notice how my apartment has way fewer cockroaches than yours?”

Max shrugged, her belly going all quivery at the mention of her apartment, which Alec used to spend time in, and now, for no good reason, he didn't anymore. But she wasn't going to get hung up on it. Not tonight. “Not sure that's a trade-off I'd take. Did I tell you he peed on my bed?”

Alec smirked. “Guess he didn't take too kindly to being kidnapped.”

“It wasn't kidnapping. I was being neighborly.”

“Right. I'm sure you've been spending time with Dalton's rat collection, too. And watering Gem's mutant plant things.”

“Shut up.”

A beat, and then Alec sighed. “You gonna tell me where we're going?”

“Nope.” Max stopped and looked up at the manhole cover above them. “Because we're here.”

They emerged a couple blocks away from their destination, but the neighborhood was familiar enough that it was pretty obvious where they were headed. The night sky was gray with moonlit drizzle, and the roads, rundown buildings and hovels made of cobbled-together trash were all slick and glassy, making the whole city seem oddly delicate. Umbrellas bobbed up and down the sidewalks, clubgoers pouring out into the streets and radiating the excitement of a party just getting started. 

“Crash?” Alec asked. He was holding himself more rigidly than before, glancing everywhere, like he'd just stepped into a trap and was calculating escape routes and the odds stacked against him.

“Yeah?” Max said, unsure. “It's Friday. Everyone should be there.”

“Everyone.” Alec was doing that toneless, unimpressed thing with his voice again, and Max didn't get it. She was so, so frustrated with not getting it.

“Cindy, Sketch, Sky, and y'know. Everyone,” she tried. “Is that—Did you not want to see them?”

“No. I mean. Yeah, I'd like to see them. It'd be nice, but.” Alec blew out a harsh breath and finally looked at her, brow pinched and his eyes bright with some unnameable but urgent-seeming thing. “Max, what is this, exactly?”

Max frowned. “It's fun. You know, that thing we used to have before we started leading a civil rights movement?” 

When he just kept looking at her, like he was expecting more, or better; when he kept shifting like he might bolt, or throw up, or ... Max really didn't know. He definitely wasn't happy, and right then, she was fiercely and undeniably _over_ trying to figure him out. 

“Look, I just. I thought it'd be good to get away and chill out for a while, but I guess I was wrong. I don't know what the hell your problem is, so I'm gonna go have some drinks with my friends, and you can just keep being all,” she flapped her hands at him, “whatever. I give up.”

And then she left him there, standing in the rain, because she didn't know what the hell else to do.


	2. Chapter 2

Crash was the same. It'd been months since the last time she was here, but this place was like a fixed, impervious point in the universe. The bartop was still gritty and scuffed black from bicycle tires, it still smelled like old corn chips and body odor, the music still sounded like some fractured, dying machine was crying out for mercy, and Sketchy was still losing paychecks at the pool table.

It wasn't until Max saw him that it hit her, how unbelievably huge that space of time stamped between this moment and their last actual face-to-face conversation actually felt, and she almost burst into tears when she saw Original Cindy break out of the crowd and walk up to the bar. It was like waking up to find a limb that you'd gotten used to doing without, suddenly reattached. 

Max had fucking _missed_ them.

“Hoooly shit!” Sketchy said, catching sight of her. He forfeited his pool cue to some guy in a leather jacket, grin a mile wide as he pushed through the crowd to come wrap his gangly monkey arms around her. “Do my eyes deceive me? Did you actually stage a jailbreak just to come down and see us lowly peasants?”

“What can I say?” Max hugged him back—maybe kinda hard, if his pained grunt was anything to go by. “Palace guards were slacking and I was bored.”

Sketchy pulled back to hold her at arm's length and went on grinning that stupid, sloppy grin of his, like he was waiting to see if she was going to keep existing this close to him. “Wow,” he said, dazed and probably half-drunk already. “S'really good to see you, Max.”

“Yeah. You too, Sketch.”

“Max Guevera, I know you did not just march your fine ass into this club and ignore me so you could talk to this fool,” Cindy's voice swelled up behind her, closing in, and Max couldn’t stop the smile that burst across her face if she tried. It was impossible to hold onto her funk with Original Cindy on the scene. “You better get your greasy hands off my girl and let her give me a hug, Sketchy, or I won't be responsible for what happens to your ugly mug.”

“Hey, c'mon, words hurt,” Sketchy slurred, but he backed off so Max could spin around and grab onto her best friend like the most blindingly beautiful life raft in one massive and hideous ocean. 

“You don't know hurt,” Cindy shot back, voice strained, and she let Max hold on for a minute or two before she called time-out for air. “Hey, I missed you too, boo, but a girl's gotta breathe.”

“Right, sorry.” Max eased up but let her head linger on Cindy's shoulder, breathing in the scent of stale beer and bicycle grease and Cindy's spicy perfume. 

Her eyes were a little hot and blurry, lights and people smeared together when she finally pulled away, but no one called her on it. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, did you guys get a day pass or something?” Sketchy declared loudly, wandering off. Max didn't have to turn around to know that Alec had decided to follow her inside, after all. He'd managed to plug himself in over the course of their time together, a buzz in the back of her brain that was usually a white noise type of thing—soothing or easy to ignore, whichever she felt like going with—but right now it felt like a nest of hornets were ricocheting around the inside of her skull. “Alec, my man! I've been brushing up on my skills and you're in for an ass-kicking, get over here!”

Cindy took one look at Max's face and ushered her to the bar. “All right, c'mon and tell Original Cindy what you been up to. And don't skimp on the details; we got a whole lotta girl talk to catch up on.”

Max dragged her smile back out. She wasn't going to let Alec spoil this. They got a pitcher of beer, and they found a table in the back, and for a little while Max just stared, soaking it all up. Cindy was dazzling as usual, dressed to the nines and her hair all perfect and elegant. Max felt kind of frumpy sitting next to her. Her clothes were frayed at the seams and ripped full of holes, and she was all too aware that she smelled like sewer. 

“Well?” Cindy prompted, and so Max started talking. 

It was mostly boring political stuff, but Cindy didn't seem displeased or uninterested, even took out a napkin to jot down important details of things he could get in on, like protest rallies and petition signings, and then she took her turn and regaled Max with the goings-on of Jam Pony, and what the transgenic struggle looked like from the outside, and just life in general. 

She was kind enough not to mention how Max's eyes kept flicking over to Alec, tracking his progress around the bar. He was doing that thing he always did when he was trying too hard—one of those _Alec Things_ that Max tried not to keep a catalog of in her own head, and mostly failed at—straight-backed and stiff-limbed, the quirk of his mouth too forced and light in his eyes not quite bright enough. He seemed genuinely pleased to be around old friends but it was obvious his head was in a whole different place. 

“Sounds like you guys are doing all right for yourselves. Making good progress,” Cindy said, approval and pride in every inch of her smile, and maybe Alec wasn't the only one whose mind was caught in its own stubborn loop. Max couldn't expect her friend to keep ignoring what was staring her right in the face for too long, at any rate. “What's up with you and your boy?”

Max shrugged, fingers idly tracing patterns in the condensation around her glass. “He's got some kinda bug up his ass. Won't talk about it.”

Cindy made a thoughtful noise, eyeballing Alec across the room like she wasn't sure whether she should go beat his ass or not. “ _You_ gonna talk about it?”

“Don't really know what to say.” Max shrugged again, but Cindy's long, penetrating look finally got her trying to explain it anyway. 

Cindy sat back, eyebrows high and her lips sucked between her teeth like she was trying really hard not to make an expression Max knew how to interpret. It was doomed to fail—Max recognized that not-an-expression as easily as any other, and she said, “You're looking at me like you know something I don't. Spit it out.”

“Not sure you're ready to hear it, boo.” 

Max started to argue, and then Cindy's eyes widened a little. Max looked over her shoulder to see Logan had come in at some point, and was now heading straight for them. She smiled tightly, not _totally_ unhappy to see him. 

“Evening, ladies,” Logan said, hovering but not sitting down. 

“Hey,” they said back, and he seemed to pick up that he'd interrupted something, opting to make it quick.

“Nice to see you getting out to relax once in a while,” Logan said to Max, sincere, and it was hard to stay even vaguely annoyed at that. “I just, uh, wanted to let you know that councilman's under investigation now, thanks to your intel.” He grinned. “I doubt he'll be a problem for much longer.”

Max nodded. “Good to know.”

“Yeah.” Logan glanced between them, shot them another quick smile and excused himself. 

Watching him walk over to the pool table to challenge Sketchy and Alec to a game of cutthroat, Max wished it wasn't so damn weird with him, she honestly did. She didn't exactly know what to do about it, though. 

Before she could refocus her attention on making Cindy spill her guts, Max's gaze was drawn back to Alec, and she knew it was off, this compulsive checking-up, a dark crawling feeling under her skin, but she didn't have a name for it. He was faking his enthusiasm more than ever, and, for a split second, his eyes were snagged by hers, something flashing across his face to quick to pin down. It was like a kick to the gut, how fast he turned away, like he could barely stand the sight of her. 

She hadn't really noticed the other girls hanging around, but now, as Alec seemed to come to some kind of decision, shedding those _fuck off_ vibes and opening himself up, she noticed. She noticed because they flowed in like the sea obeying the moon, beautiful and shimmering and helpless to resist its gravity. Strangely, though, it was the one girl who didn't look remotely interested—blonde and gorgeous and more interested in the game than being hit on—that Alec set his sights on, turning the charm up to full blast. 

Max watched him lean in, skin sweat-shiny and flushed from the packed-in body heat and the alcohol. He went loose and hazy-eyed, still fake but hard to turn away from, and she watched the girl notice _him_ , swaying closer, letting his lips brush her ear, her face pinking. Max watched all of this happening, and all the while, this awful, damning thing was unfurling inside her gut. It started slow, and then it just sort of smacked through her the rest of the way, like standing on the edge of a cliff not knowing she was going to jump until she was in freefall. 

It was the worst kind of revelation.

The sympathy in Cindy's eyes when Max looked over at her didn't help. 

“ _Oh._ ” The breath of it came punching out of her. “I—“ Max couldn't think, feeling sick and suffocated, cold and too hot all at once. “I have to go,” she finally managed, and everything that came after that was a blur: tearing out of there like her ass was on fire, stumbling her way back to the sewer and then to TC. Next thing she knew, she was sitting in the middle of her bed, stunned into a kind of temporary numbness. 

She wasn't sure what to do with any of it. Some time in recent past, something had gone sideways in her head and she hadn't even noticed. It was messed up, the worst time to be having ideas like this, and _oh god there wasn't a chance in hell_. 

It was Alec, for fuck's sake. Alec with his easy grins and free love and stupid jokes. Insanely reckless and yet somehow practical and responsible Alec with his boatloads of issues and his _always all right_ s and his bad taste in music and soap operas. Alec, who, when he was exceptionally furious or barely-held-together, sometimes got that look in his eye that made her breath catch and her mind spin with _we never should've left_ and _it's not him, it's not_. 

He was Alec, and she was Max, and there was no way. 

Max wasn't stupid. Slow to the table on this one thing, maybe, but not stupid. When one thing clicked everything else just kind of slotted into place behind it. Alec's behavior, Logan as the common denominator, and, as many problems as Max had relationship-wise, getting someone to _look_ and _think about her_ like that had never been one of them. It wasn't vanity, more like this habitual awareness of possible advantages Manticore had taught her to have, one that could never quite shake loose, and she knew how it all added up. 

But it wasn't going to happen. It was just. A thing. They were more-or-less trapped, low on dating options, they had responsibilities and people counting on them, and topping that off with all the drama of a high school crush was just a terrible idea. It felt ugly and nauseating on her end, the prospect of being aware of it and denying denying denying for however long, but they'd both been through much, much worse and they'd get over it. 

Max pulled in a shaky breath and laid down, trying to get some sleep. She had a big morning in front of her and she needed a clear head. There was no use dwelling on anything else. 

-:-

Alec ruined everything. 

He'd never liked playing by anyone else's rules, always had to find a way to bend, weave around, or slide under them when he wasn't allowed to just outright smash them into kindling. Max should've factored that in. It was her first round of coming to grips with this new knowledge, though, so she figured she oughta be cut some slack. 

Morning dawned bright and clear but the air was thick as soup, thunderclouds building up along the horizon and promising an afternoon of rain, and Freak Nation held its first official press conference trussed up in SWAT body armor and packed in behind a row of bullet-resistant riot shields. Clemente was zero-bullshit all the way—he wasn't about to let a small army of paranoid, heavily-armed mutants anywhere near his public, but he wasn't an idiot, either. There were still far too many people willing to take advantage of the fact that opening fire on them wouldn't _technically_ result in homicide. You had to be considered human for basic human rights to apply, and that was what it was about, anyway, so whatever. Max wasn't sweating the gear too much. 

What she _was_ sweating was the fact that Alec wasn't there. This big event that they'd been planning for like the pivotal battle in a long war, and Max's second-in-command was a big, fat NO-SHOW—all caps because it was monumentally fucking important in its complete and utter failure to make any sense. 

Alec did plenty of questionable things with his life, especially when it came to the two of them, but this? He wouldn't do this. Not on purpose. This was about _all_ of them, and Max knew without a doubt that something had gone terribly wrong. 

The show had to go on, though, so Max tried to act like it was all just a last-minute change of plans, totally normal, so no one would panic, only letting a few of her more level-headed lieutenants in on what was really happening before she stepped up to the microphone. 

She talked for a while, rehearsed stuff she and the others had come up with beforehand, camera lenses catching the sun's glare and microphones rippling like a low tide. Nervous energy made her skin buzz and her head feel all cramped and tender. There were what seemed like a hundred news crews and at least five times as many civilians piled up behind the crime scene tape the cops had tossed up to section things off—Seattle had the best sideshow in the world and people from all over wanted a peek, all of them gawking, not blinking, listening too hard. The occasional shriek of feedback echoed across the parking lot, and she couldn't help but feel like she was in the eye of some wildly unpredictable storm. 

Her opening speech was winding down, and she glanced over at the others, flashbulbs going off all over the place. Joshua nodded. Max blew out a hard breath.

"I guess we'll take some questions now," she said, and it was like kicking at a tripwire. 

Reporters flailed their arms around and screamed over each other, microphones stabbing up into the air. People thrust homemade signs over their heads, the words violent and bold and messy. Some chanted together, some shouted accusations, and some just howled in wordless rage or excitement. The police went wide-eyed, hands moving to their sidearms or riot batons, their own shields twitching up in uncertain little waves. Max bared her teeth and flinched back a step, bumping into Gem, and she wasn't much better, lip curled in an involuntary snarl and her shoulders hunched forward. The crowd, the humidity, the shields—they'd already felt like zoo animals on the wrong side of the glass, hackles up, but the noise, _the chaos_ , was almost too much. 

Mole came through and grazed the back of Max's hand— _tag, I'm it_ —and she couldn't help but think that it was supposed to be Alec's cue, Alec was supposed to be here and he wasn't and she didn't have time for this, but she didn't have a choice. 

Mole stepped forward and cleared his throat, finger tapping out a little rhythm on the microphone until everyone mostly shut the hell up. He answered what he felt like answering and ignored the rest, and after that Max tuned most of it out. She trusted the others to field the usual questions and think on their feet when it came to anything new, because that was the beauty of backup and unity and family, and from what she could tell, what with the lack of projectiles and bloodshed, it all went mostly okay. 

As soon as it was over and they were being escorted back to TC, Max grabbed Gem and sought out Clemente. 

“We're not going back,” she said, pulling him aside. Technically they had an agreement that the freaks stayed in their big, toxic cage unless they were accompanied by law enforcement, as much for their protection as anyone else's, but, again, Clemente wasn't stupid. If no one rubbed his face in it, he pretended not to know about it, so it was understandable he'd be surprised at Max being so open. “Something's wrong, and I could use some help.”

She guessed she and Gem both looked pretty freaked out, because Clemente didn't argue. “What happened?”

“My SIC's missing. We were out last night,” she admitted, feeling sick all over again. There was a reason they didn't risk visiting their old haunts very often, especially the ones as publicly accessible as Crash, and she'd left Alec there without any kind of backup just so she could go off and have a small panic attack. This was exactly why stupid, mushy feelings were a bad idea. Gem squeezed her shoulder but Max shrugged it off. “I left early, but I know some of the people who were there with him. I need you to talk to them.”

“And what're you gonna do?”

“I've got other contacts,” she said, thinking of Logan, and the long, long list of people Alec had pissed off that she and Gem could track down and beat to a pulp. 

Clemente regarded her for a second, eyes dark and serious, then looked around to see if anyone was paying them any special attention. He nodded, leading them away from the police vans they were using to transport her people, and put the two of them in the back of his own car. “You've got until we get through this check point up here to tell me what you've got,” he said, navigating his car through the still dispersing crowds. “And if you happen to slip out while I'm not looking, I never saw you, you were never here, and I don't know a damn thing about any of this.”

“Thank you,” Max said. It seemed woefully inadequate after all he'd done for them, but it was all she had right then. 

She gave him all the details she could, and then she and Gem hit the streets. 

“I'm guessing you want me to pay Logan a visit,” Gem said, easily concluding that Max was better suited for action than standing around and waiting for Logan's computers to spit out any clues they might find. 

“Yeah,” Max said, already vibrating just having to keep still for this conversation. “Mole's gonna put together a search party as soon as they get back. Can't really have any transhumans traipsing through the city, but we're still pretty well known, so keep your head down.” 

“You got it, boss.”

Max frowned. “Page me if you find anything.”

“You, too,” Gem said, and they split up. 

-:-

They looked for four days. 

Everyone Clemente had interrogated who'd been at Crash that night all said pretty much the same thing, and then the same thing again when Max asked, just to be thorough. 

“He ditched that other female soon as you left,” Original Cindy told her over the phone. “He was pouting 'cause I mighta _accidentally_ hit him with a pool cue for actin' like a dumbass, but he wasn't being cagey or nothing. Just your typical pretty-boy brooding.”

“He took off about an hour after you did,” Sketchy said. “He drank a lot, but I figure you guys don't really get drunk like we do, right? He was walking and talking pretty straight, anyway.”

“I didn't see anyone hassling him,” Sky assured. “'Cept Cindy. She whacked him kinda hard.”

There were no witnesses to say which way he might've gone, which, given it was a fairly popular club on a Friday night, was not a good sign. At all. Witnesses could be _disappeared_ , but they hardly ever failed to exist in the first place, and anyone who felt the need to operate that way did not have happy, rainbow-shitting things in mind for their target. It was weak-sauce good news and epically horrible news at the same time—good because it confirmed that Alec hadn't just decided to split, as one of the newer X-6's who hadn't know him that long tried to suggest before being shut down hard and fast by Joshua; bad for about a thousand obvious reasons. 

So, Max started down the list of enemies who had the weaponry and manpower to work like that, from the bottom up. 

The Steelheads didn't have anything to offer. Max kicked the ever-loving shit out of them for the sake of expediency, because those guys acted tough, sure, but they tended to fold under a transgenic's wrath pretty quickly, and still they kept insisting they hadn't seen that “prissy wanker” in months. Mole had everyone out looking, transhumans combing the underground and X-5s and up working aboveground, and it was the same with every other gang and thug Alec had ever done business with, or against, which left Max with a whole lot of rage and terror and nothing to aim it at. 

Logan turned up exactly bupkis. “I ran every search I could think of. Arrests, hospital admittances, hoverdrone footage flagged for suspicious behavior, unusual traffic moving in or out of the city. Nothing. I even hacked into all the footage for cameras and hoverdrones operating in and around Crash that night, flagged or not, and he hasn't turned up on any of the tapes, Max.” Logan paused, taking a deep breath that meant he was about to tell her something unpleasant. “You have to understand how very low the chances of that happening are if he wasn't actively avoiding them. He didn't just vanish into thin air...”

“Which means this is way bigger than street gangs,” Max finished for him, and though she had already deduced as much on her own, hearing it confirmed didn't make it any less gut-wrenching. 

That narrowed things down to the top of the food chain—White and his snake-worshiping weirdos, leftover Manticore scum, or any number of government agencies across the globe. These were not people Max could tackle within any acceptable time frame, even if she knew specifically which group to go after. Alec would be dead and/or in pieces by then. 

Feeling like vital organs were being torn out of her with every shake of the head or muttered apology, Max was about ready to start printing off fliers offering a million dollars for information, whether she had the money or not; call another press conference so she could get down on her knees and beg the whole world; declare all-out war and start taking hostages; _anything_. 

But then, on the fifth day—stupidly random, _un-fucking-believable_ asshole that he was—Alec limped out of the night and right up to the front gate, bloodied, sopping wet and ghost-pale, no shoes on his feet and a broken section of chain dragging behind him, grinned shakily at the cops outside the fences and said, “Lucy, I'm home.” 

And then he passed out.


End file.
